Chapter 3: Between Pavement and Stars

We start off by watching the recaps of all the other Reapings.

In an ordinary year, standing in the Square besides Belle and Danny and my sister, it is difficult to keep track of all the two dozen tributes who are hauled up on stage. Most of the time, only a few really stick out in my mind. This year, with double the numbers, even fewer make an impression, as we observe name after name after name after name being called up.

The Careers from Brutus's usual crowd of Districts 1, 4 and his 2 homeland are all lean, hard muscle, even some of the girls. I have no idea how a young woman my age can have both nice breasts and full-on abs, but the tall blonde from District 1 is nonetheless positively jacked. Of these three districts with their enormous advantage, she is the only one I remember. Next to me, Gilla has clearly noticed her too, shrinking into the plush velvet until she nearly disappears. I take note of the imposing chick's name: Opal.

"She'll be Pack Leader," I blurt out to the others.

"Huh? Who?" Brutus reaches for the remote to attempt and rewind…. and finds it gone. It only takes him a moment to discover the reason: Haymitch is passing the wandy stick from hand to hand, examining it the way a little boy might study a new toy. When he notices Brutus glowering, my classmate's smile only widens, and he waggles it tauntingly in the air.

Quick as lightning, Brutus snatches the remote back, so sharply that the back battery panel dislodges. Our mentor curses. "Don't… touch….. anything," he growls. He jams the panel back into its proper place, and doubles back from where the District 2 escort is just reaching to select the first girl. "Who did you predict would be Pack Leader, little darling?"

I reward Brutus with a glower of my own. "My name's not 'little darling.' It's Maysilee." To my surprise and immense satisfaction, Brutus actually blushes.

"Of course," he mumbles, and I note how my admonishment behooves him to open several manila folders at his plate.

I turn back to the screen. "There. That one. Opal. She's the one to watch."

Brutus follows my gaze, nodding in cool, clinical approval. "A solid bet. I'd match you with sesterces, if I was allowed to gamble." He dips his head in my direction. "Nice instincts." My face turns warm at the compliment. He may be….. well, a brute, but it would seem that it takes a lot to color Brutus impressed.

We resume the tape to District 2 as normal, where the boys alone possess about just as much girth as Brutus does now – two years their senior and on a Victor's diet.

I tune out the details of District 3's Reaping after digesting that their escort seems to have a habit of picking all twelve-year-olds to watch Brutus thumbing through the manila folders. Darting his tongue out to lick his forefinger, he flips over to the next page; I swear I catch a glimpse of my name.

"What are you reading?"

"Your files," the large Career answers without even glancing up from the page. "They were expressly delivered to me from your district school the moment you were taken into custody."

Taken into custody. He makes it sound like we're prisoners. Though, in a way, we are. We have been offered up as tribute, for the Capitol to do with what it likes. Brutus bends over what I have guessed is the file on me, glancing up at me with an intensely serious look on his face. His bottom lip protrudes out when he thinks. "It says here you're a fraternal twin?"

A twinge of pain courses through me as I latch onto an image of Kaydilyn, conspiring with Merle Undersee in the back of Literature class. "My sister," I croak out.

Brutus's gaze shifts once over to Gilla, still balled up in her chair. "Wish she was here in place of the shrimp," he mumbles unusually loudly. "I'd make a killing on sponsorships." This obviously must have something to do with the fact that my mentor is clearly attracted to me, and I refrain from showing any disgust on my face. So too do I refrain from yelling at him for demeaning Gilla, as much as I might want to defend the little girl. Brutus might be acting like some kind of morbid pimp trotting us out to whatever highest bidder will take a chance on us, but something tells me that's not entirely his fault. I'm a rudimentary enough card player (despite Daddy's disapproval that playing cards is unladylike) to know Brutus has been dealt a hand, and as our mentor, he has to play the cards he's been dealt. Any angle he can work that might be of some benefit to us - in other words, to saving our lives - he will use.

Take Gilla, for instance. The best Brutus might be able to pull off for her is playing up the cuteness factor. Unfortunately, since Brutus's heart clearly isn't into glorified babysitting, I'm pretty sure the Capitol audience won't be invested either. I might not be willing to admit what Brutus is clearly willing to say out loud, but the fact still remains: the little Seam pre-teen is pretty much doomed.

As for me, I don't how or why Brutus thinks the looming but still invisible presence of Kaydilyn could actually help me. She's herself. I'm me. "What does my sister have to do with anything?"

"A compelling life story," Brutus quips, turning another page. "A reason for you to come home. And also pure biology: two pretty girls are always better than one pretty girl. And it might give the crowd a thirst to see a sibling go in the next year, especially if she turns out to be the sibling of a Victor."

Bile surges in my throat. Suddenly, the duck au l'orange on my plate doesn't look very delicious.

With the specter of my twin sister being offered as tribute in next year's Games effectively killing my appetite, I turn back to the recaps in time to see we are transitioning from District 4 to 5. One of the boys selected from their 18-year-olds pool, though skinny as a drowned rat, has a disconcerting smile that appears sly and mysterious. His male and two female counterparts are otherwise largely forgettable. Noting the two men – their only Victors – seated behind their new charges (one of whom appears not much older than Brutus), I have a feeling the sly boy will be the only real contender to come out of at least District 5. I don't voice this finding though; Brutus might admonish me by saying something like I'm not analyzing all of the tributes deeply enough. That appearances can be deceiving – the other three District 5 tributes could be just as dangerous as the one boy I picked out.

I chance a glance once again at Gilla. This little Seam pixie might yet have something in her that I'm not paying attention to, though should – after all, she got the drop on Brutus probably the best out of all four of us within our little brawl.

Brutus might be thinking along a similar wavelength, or at the very least, must have reached Gilla's file, for he now turns to her and speaks the most words to her since he arrived in the train car. "What about you, squirt? Is there anything special about you at all?"

Gilla gulps. "That older girl from District 7 is good with throwing axes," she whispers.

We all snap our heads back to the screen, where the second girl from Seven is being summoned up to the stage.

"I didn't ask what's special about her – I asked what's special about you. And anyway, how could you possibly know that?" our mentor scoffs.

"Look at her forearms," Gilla nods to the image. "She has pronounced biceps. Which tells you that she has been carrying and likely chucking short, ranged weapons."

"In other words: Gilla here is very observant," Beech smiles down at her. "You should pay attention, too," he nods to Brutus.

A beat as Brutus absorbs this. Finally, he turns back to his paperwork, grumbling. I smile at Gilla and give her a thumbs-up. She weakly smiles back at the praise.

Meanwhile, Brutus has moved on to the next file. On one page, he freezes, flips back as if to do a double take, then lifts his eyes up to Haymitch. At last, our mentor clears his throat. "What about you, genius? Any aces up your sleeve?"

Haymitch smirks. "Why? You feeling inadequate somewhere, bright eyes?" His gaze shifts downwards to somewhere under the table, and we all tense. I squirm with discomfort. How I wish my fellow tribute wouldn't antagonize the guy who's supposed to keep us alive!

For Brutus's part, it is taking all of his self-control to not lunge across the table and bash Haymitch's face through the train window. "I'm asking in the interest of full disclosure," the former Career at last gets out through gritted teeth. "Like, say, an estimated IQ score of 155?"

My jaw drops and even Beech looks impressed, swiveling all the way around in his seat to stare at Haymitch. Haymitch himself, meanwhile, maintains an admirable poker face throughout, despite my disbelief.

I knew it. I knew he was a goddamn genius.

"What the hell are they teaching you in a Twelve school?" Brutus inquires, sounding a little dazed himself.

I fold my arms across the table, turning to face Brutus. "Advanced courses. Haymitch is the only Seam kid who's ever tested into that curriculum. It's usually only for Merchant kids."

Brutus blinks. "And that's good, right? I mean, am I supposed to what Seam is? Merchant?"

"Class lines," I murmur. "The Seam kids are the poorer folk of the district. Not a lot of opportunity. But Haymitch tested into our advanced courses anyway."

Now, it's Haymitch's turn to gawp in abject disbelief. I feel him clutch my arm, turning me to face him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demands.

I stare back at him evenly. "What are you doing? If he's going to help you live, he needs to know your strengths – preferably from you, and not from other people. Don't sell yourself short."

Haymitch releases my arm, leaning back a little to ponder me with a stare of wary mistrust. I hold his gaze, the tension boiling over. The heat of his gaze – however hostile it might be, though this is slowly dwindling by degrees – makes me feel flushed all over. In the span of this moment that seems to last forever, the Reapings of Districts 10 and 11 flash by completely unnoticed.

It is Beech who breaks the tableau, when he swivels his head back to the screen to take in the four of us being broadcast live to all of Panem. Perhaps remembering that he is the only one who has not gone through an individual, initial evaluation, he blurts out into the silence, "I'm the runner-up on the wrestling team in school!"

Yes, he is, I find myself concurring silently. And the only reason he's not the champion of his weight class is that Danny Mellark could pin him in his sleep.

"And….. good for you," Brutus dismisses, lifting the remote to switch the television off. He sounds thoroughly unimpressed as he stands. "We'll be arriving in the Capitol first thing in the morning. I suggest you all get some sleep. We'll have no time to rest until after the parade tomorrow evening." With those words, he clearly dismisses us, and we all break for bedtime.

When Dolly pipes up, I jump; I'd almost completely forgotten our escort was here. "Your sleeping quarters are down the next car. Boys, you'll have your names printed on doors at your left; girls, the same on your right."

Beech takes little Gilla by the hand and exits for the hallway of the car beyond first. Haymitch prowls behind, hands stuffed in his pockets. I quicken my pace to catch up with him.

"Hey!"

He turns, eyes narrowing at me. I feel like curling into myself, though I will myself to hold his gaze. "Thanks," I mumble. "For sticking up for me. For….. not allowing Brutus to touch me."

He grunts. "You didn't think I wouldn't?" His tone sounds almost accusatory.

"No….. No!" I almost yelp, trying to give him my best, most appreciative smile. "It's…. it's nice to know chivalry isn't dead."

Haymitch snorts through his nose. "I'd prefer to call it experience." He scuffs at the ground. "People say I have my mother's looks and my daddy's mouth. You don't think the Peacekeepers also didn't think my mother was a hot piece of skirt that they could have any old time they wanted?"

I feel all the color drain from my face in sympathy. The Peacekeepers in Twelve – some of them, anyway – have been known to take pleasure wherever they can find it, from Merchant and Seam women alike. Mother always drilled into Kaydilyn and me the importance of consent, despite the fact that it would likely be more expedient to just not resist and let the officers do what they like with us.

Haymitch's ash-grey eyes are boring into mine. "My daddy always said: a District 12 man who can't protect his woman isn't much of a man at all."

I take note of the past tense, my expression collapsing with sadness. That's right. Word tore through the school of Markus Abernathy's death about six months ago. Supposedly, it had been a brutal winter, for the Seam folk. "I'm sorry," I whisper, my voice quite small.

He looks askance. "Not your fault," he mumbles. He bristles suddenly, as if trying to dislodge a fly. "Though I do expect an apology for you ratting my test scores out to that ape!"

I gawp at him, letting out a little offended laugh. "Are you kidding me? One of the only reasons you have those test scores out of those advanced courses is because of me! At the town hall meeting, I stood up for you! You have a funny way of showing gratitude."

Haymitch blinks owlishly at me, seeming to make the connection of who I am with what I have done for him. Perhaps he didn't remember. But that doesn't excuse him being so rude!

"And back there, with the staff of jellybeans? That was called saving your life!" I abruptly spit out. Really, it's not fair that I am keeping score, but what he accused me of….. he has no right! I was trying to help him! And even though it should go against every instinct I have to want to preserve my own life – we are going into a literal fight to the death – I feel that I can't help but prop him up, even when he seems to have no desire to help himself, at least when put under the spotlight. That's not the ballsy Haymitch I know.

"You're right." Haymitch says it so softly, I fear I might have misheard, or imagined it entirely. When I snap my eyes back to his, blinking, he dips his head in acknowledgement once. "You're right." And he grants me a tiny bow. "Good night, Princess."

My throat all at once feels dry. "My name is Maysilee." I sound practically breathless.

He cracks the smallest of smirks. "Yeah. Sure. Good night." And turning, he opens the door to the quarters marked for him and disappears inside. I find myself staring at the varnished wood for many minutes afterwards.

"Good…. Good night."


A pounding fist rouses me from a restless sleep the next morning.

"Get up." Brutus's order through the wood of my door is abrupt, efficient and to the point. Indeed, there is something very militaristic about it. As I rise from the down comforters and feather pillows, I find myself wondering if he has ever heard of Taps – the bugler back home is renowned for being able to awaken all the officers in the Peacekeeper barracks, as well as close to all of Town.

I drag myself to the shower in the bathroom, and right away am flummoxed by the sheer number of buttons and knobs spread out in an array before me…

…. and, as I tragically soon discover, in no discernable order.

No one in the Capitol figured that a legend or a key might be required for district tributes to help us navigate taking a bath, so the next ten minutes are spent going through a comical process of trial and error. The first button I press, pink suds are jetted out from holes that open in the wall panels. I squeak, nearly choking on the stuff. With the pink suds getting in my eyes, I have to grope blindly for the next button, and my squeak pitches into a full-on scream: blasts of water, alternating jarringly between searing hot and ice-cold, assault my skin. Having always had a preference for warm water back in Twelve, I have to concentrate on dodging the freezing sprays, while then getting under the boiling ones to scrub and rinse simultaneously until the heat becomes too much for even me to bear.

Judging myself to be decently clean, I emerge from the shower and head for the armoire. Most of my wardrobe is Capitol fashions: too loud and ostentatious for my sensibilities. But I finally find a burgundy tunic and dark workout pants that are utilitarian enough, suiting my purposes nicely.

Turning back to my crumpled up Reaping dress in a corner chair, I remember to retrieve the little golden pendant fastened over the bodice. Studying the mockingjay emblazoned in 14-karats, I trace my thumb over the raised image. The pin was a present from Kaydilyn for our birthday this past spring. She had been the one to pin the pendant on my dress as we got ready for the Reaping…. only yesterday morning. Already, it feels much longer ago. But as I stare down at it, turn it over in my hand, I am profoundly grateful that my sister had the presence of mind to give this to me. Every tribute is permitted a district token to carry into the arena with them. Something from home. Opening the clasp and threading the point through my burgundy tunic, I resolve that this pin will be mine.

THWAP, THWAP! "Maysilee….!"

"Coming!" I call to Brutus, lunging for the door and opening it. My mentor blinks rather rapidly upon seeing me.

"At least one of you is prompt," he mutters dryly. "Come on; we're pulling into the station….."

Brutus corrals us all before the hydraulic doors of the sleeping car. Through the stainless steel, I can hear a deafening roar of Capitolites clamoring to meet us, the tributes.

"When these doors open, I want you all to project yourselves as tough, intimidating. Show them that you can bring pride and honor to your district." He eyes each of us in turn, pausing for a moment when he gets to Gilla. "On second thought, you….. just be yourself. You're about as intimidating as a Chihuahua; the audience will know it's fake."

I come closer than I ever have to calling Brutus out on his behavior regarding our littlest comrade, but once again hold back, feeling it could be counterproductive. Brutus may have already given up on her, but….. "You could be a little more encouraging," I hiss to the broad young man who is supposed to be our teacher. That is the most that I allow myself to say about it, even as I steal an arm around Gilla's trembling shoulders. "You're going to do great."

The hydraulic doors hiss open, and the sunlight itself seems to blink as paparazzi cameras are thrust nearly directly into our faces. I attempt to put on my best game face, carrying myself as impervious. On the opposite side of Brutus, Haymitch's expression is as chilled as stone. Beyond him, Beech quickly loses control of whatever apathetic façade he has attempted as he gets drunker and drunker on the Capitolites' frantic screaming for him. Before long, he appears boyish, and I want to groan. 6'5" or not, the Careers will turn him into mincemeat. Gilla is also taking the happy route, beaming and waving for the wild throng.

Brutus maneuvers us through the crowd now pressing tighter and tighter in, manipulating the mob to carry us like a cresting wave through the Capitol train station, beyond which now waits a stretch limousine. Gilla lets out an ecstatic gasp, and leads the way into the back when a white-gloved attendant holds open the door for us. I have to duck my head low to follow; the boys more or less tumble in after us. Brutus forks over a wad of what must be sesterces – Capitol currency – and away we fly deeper and deeper into the metropolis. Within minutes, it seems we have arrived at the Remake Center, just off the City Center proper.

As the mentor, Brutus is the first to emerge. Haymitch quickly follows him, turning back and holding out his hand to me.

I freeze for a moment, taken aback by his gallantry, and blush. "Thanks," I smile, and graciously allow him to help me out of the car. Even over the bustle and noise, I can hear Beech and Gilla gabbing excitedly behind us, stopping every few feet to point something out to each other.

"Get a move on, you lot! Your stylists haven't got all day!" Brutus growls, waving us through to the lobby, where I can see that several of the other district delegations have already arrived. My stare stills for a prolonged moment on a quartet of muscled warriors. Part of the Careers, though from which District, I can't tell. This, however, is cleared up in the next moment as Brutus approaches a man who must be in his upper 20s.

"Ares!"

"Brutus!" The two men embrace.

Oh, he must be Ares Valerio, who triumphed in the first Games I ever remember watching. It is a vague memory, to be sure; Kaydilyn and I were still little, had just started Lower School. If I can recall correctly, at least from the lectures we had on it in Hunger Games History class, the 41st Hunger Games was set on a series of cliffs, dotted by waterfalls. Ares Valerio, the boy from 2 that year and Pack Leader, had spent quite a bit of intimate time with his ally, the girl from 4….. whom he eventually had to cast over the edge of one of the waterfalls and watch her plummet to her death. I think back to Brutus's similar final moves to Victory, and wonder if Ares was his mentor.

As I find myself drifting closer, I can hear the two men talking in low tones. I try to ignore how both of Ares's male charges are eyeing me like I'm a scrumptious snack.

"So, Ahenobarbus relegated you to cannon fodder duty, huh? Man, that's rough…. You'd think they'd at least assign a Capitol trainer to do it! Even Six has a Victor to mentor – hell, two of them now!" Ares glances briefly to me, gesturing. "How can you expect these backwater hicks to make the grade?"

Behind me, I can practically feel Haymitch's scowl. Brutus, however, just chortles.

"Oh, I don't know, Ares…. I think you'll find this crop from Twelve is fairly decent. Even…. full of surprises." He shifts his eyes to me with a smirk. Without a doubt, that is probably the nicest thing he has ever said about any of us.

All at once, there is an almost wailing squeal of "Brutus Barsetti!"

Brutus looks appropriately confused by a woman who he clearly doesn't know, her face tattooed to resemble a bat, sweeping forward to kiss him on both cheeks. "Such an honor it is…."

"Oh. Hello…." The ex-Career clears his throat. "You must be Baronness Antonia!" He turns to us ladies. "Sorry, Maysilee, Shrimp, but apparently the State didn't have the budget to outfit you each with your own prep team, so you'll have to share with the usual one. Your Head Stylist, Baronness Antonia, and hair and make-up, Quillia and Bette." Two more ladies curtsey before us, giggling and heatedly whispering amongst themselves and pointing at Gilla and me, no doubt already mocking up designs in their heads.

Antonia nearly floats over to me, taking a strand of my long blonde hair and twirling it between her fingers. "Oh, my dear…. such natural beauty….. are you really District 12 born? Why, when I'm through with you, Aphrodite herself will be jealous!"

I have no idea who that person is, but I decide to take it as a compliment all the same.

With a clap of her hands, Antonia whisks Gilla and I away, our head stylist prattling a mile a minute. I am allowed just one glance over my shoulder to where Brutus is introducing Haymitch and Beech to their prep team before Gilla and I are shoved into salon chairs.

Without any warning or decorum, we girls are stripped down to absolutely nothing and attacked with tweezers.

Gilla and I are plucked and preened like the District 12 poultry man's best chickens. Ever single hair must go, Antonia insists, and I let out a yelp of mortification as Bette proceeds to shave all the blonde hair off from the apex of my thighs.

Before I can recover from the indignity, our salon chairs are tipped back and we are unceremoniously dumped into individual tubs filled to the brim with those pink suds that assaulted me in the shower on the train. It is with these and a scratchy brush that I am scrubbed until my skin is pink, mottled and raw. For the finishing touch, we are exfoliated in such a manner that our skin is effectively smoothed back over again.

Quillia shoves me in front of a mirror while she applies grey lipstick and black eyeliner to my lips and lashes. When she finally steps back with a cry of joy, I stare.

An angel has deigned to visit me. Take possession of my body…. which, tragically, is still maddeningly naked. I pinch my legs together and my palms fly to my breasts, as I attempt to cover what little modesty remains.

"Where our are costumes?" Gilla chirps out, also attempting to shield herself. From what I can make out, her body is just beginning to develop in the early throes of puberty. I decide I frankly have the better deal between the two of us.

"Costumes?!" Antonia shrieks. "My dear, you wound me! Cloth and fabric obfuscates a district woman's true beauty! No, no, my lovelies, you will be presented for the city's pleasure in all the beauty you were born in!"

And with that declarative statement, two buckets of a black, powdery substance are dumped on our heads, coating Gilla and I from head to foot.

I cough and wheeze, blinking the dust out of my eyes as fast as possible. Quillia dives back in to touch up my mascara and as the smoke clears, the mirror gives me a good look.

Coal dust. We are covered completely in coal dust. Soot. For an extra flourish, Gilla and I are handed what I guess are their interpretation of miner's helmets. I have no idea what books Antonia probably hasn't read, but these clunky hats look nothing like the helmets I've seen coming up towards the Hob on the edge of Town, when I go out for evening walks after supper.

Antonia actually appears teary as she takes us in. "Ohhh… my little starlets! You are sensational! Come, come! We must join you with your handsome men at the chariots!"

An image of Haymitch wafts into my brain, and I can't fight back a smile. In the next moment, though, I blanche… Oh, gods… he's going to see me…

Before I can think to do anything like actually attempt to make a run for it, Gilla and I have been loaded into a small cart to take us just down the street to the stablehouse just off City Center. There, we will mount our chariots and be paraded down the Avenue of Tributes.

The District 12 chariot is, of course, at the back of the line. It's actually only small relief to see Haymitch and Beech, who are stumbling around with deers-in-headlights expressions on their mortified faces, their bodies just as bare as ours. I…. ohhhhhhh… Even as Haymitch tries to hide it, I catch a flash of…. I thank whatever might be above that the coal dust powder conceals the pink in my cheeks.

"ANTONIA!..." The voice of our mentor is a bellow from clear across the stablehouse, so ear-splitting that the background conversations of most of the other tributes cease. Once half the Careers glance in our direction, the sound swells back, this time in laughter and giggles. I flush even further red as the girls from the District 9 contingent laugh and point.

A vein is throbbing in Brutus's neck as he stalks up to us, making right for my and Gilla's Head Stylist. "What have you done? What is this?!"

"My magnum opus," Antonia sniffs. "Aren't they just…. darling? It is…. bold! Evocative!"

"It's also been this district's look for the past twenty years!" Brutus shrieks, barely granting himself enough time for an eye-roll as he rages and fumes. "Bold and evocative, my ass! She looks like a chimneysweep and a whore had a baby!" He gestures contemptuously at Gilla. But apparently, I'm the greatest subject of my mentor's displeasure, as he grabs my chin and thrusts it forward toward Antonia for emphasis. "Look at Maysilee! She's ruined! How am I supposed to sell my most attractive tribute when she looks like she took a wrong turn on her way from the boiler room?!"

"I mean, I'd lose the coal dust routine, but I think she looks lovely…." Haymitch's voice is amazingly soft, and the tender tone of it makes me snap my gaze to his in surprise. If I had blinked, I would have missed his eyes perform a quick sweep of my body, exposed for him and all to see. The appraisal makes me shiver in delight, and I suddenly don't feel as self-conscious standing in public in the nude.

Coming back to myself, I clue into Brutus still screaming himself hoarse. "This is the laziest concept I've ever seen from a stylist in the sixteen years I've been participating in the Games in various capacities! Fix it – NOW!"

Antonia looks affronted. "Ungrateful district brute!" she stamps her foot. "Start over with the parade only five minutes away?! I am not a miracle worker!"

Brutus's jaw clamps up, his teeth setting as he stews. "Fine!" he snaps, before jabbing a finger in her face. "But I am going to track down Glanius Crane, the Head Gamemaker, and we are going to have words. I'm registering a formal complaint! Who's your brand line?"

Antonia reluctantly gives him the name of her employer – apparently one of "the finest boutiques in the Capitol!" – as trumpets blare in the distance. Distracted, Brutus snaps his fingers at Beech and points. The silent message is clear: round them up and get in! Beech has enough good sense to obey – I have a feeling if Brutus had given an order like that to Haymitch, my classmate would have stubbornly refused it out of sheer spite.

The chariot is inlaid with gold, and pulled by a team of two white stallions. With the unusual parameter of the Quarter Quell, each basket has been upholstered with two rows. Beech lifts little Gilla into the front row with the ease of one plucking a stick from the ground or a slip of paper from the Reaping Bowl and deposits her in.

Rounding to the back, Haymitch gentlemanly holds out his hand to me to help me in. Beaming at him, I take it and even give it a little squeeze. He bristles a little, harrumphing, though unlike before on the train, it seems to lack any bite.

I register Haymitch clambering in beside me, only to frown as he tries to peer around the mass that is Beech in the row directly ahead of him.

"Hey! Down in front!"

"I am down." Beech side-eyes his district partner from over his shoulder.

"Bitch, you are not!" I cringe at the foul language, even as I tell myself it must be a thrash-talking guy thing. Too late, it seems to dawn on Haymitch that there are ladies present, and he shoots me an almost sheepish, apologetic grin.

Beech heaves out a dramatic sigh. "Look: this is standing, and this is squatting. I'm squatting." He adjusts his body to demonstrate each state. I can't help but giggle because, frankly, I can't detect much of a difference. Beech (and Brutus, for that matter) better hope that this procession doesn't blow out his knees.

Two places ahead of us, the District 10 chariot is starting to pick up speed, signaling the Districts 11 and 12 chariots to creak forward. Our chariot sways, and I whimper a little, teetering dangerously with the motion so that I reflexively grab for the first thing to hold onto.

That happens to be Haymitch's hand, resting idly on the rim of the chariot.

He stills in shock, and I do too, our eyes lifting to meet each other's. My district partner must see something vulnerable, truly pleading, in my gaze, for his own expression drifts into the softest I have ever seen from him. Without another word, he laces his fingers through mine. I smile weakly in thanks, and suddenly feel grateful that it is him, and not Beech, by my side.

As our vessel emerges onto the Avenue of Tributes, an earth-quaking roar blasts our eardrums. A chilly night wind gusts up in my face with the blasting force of a hairdryer and I blink as I take in my surroundings.

A cacophony of color and sound, embodied by people masquerading like something out of the fairytale books that Mama would read to Kaydilyn and I, envelops us. The herd shrieks and calls out to us, some of them even running to catch up with our chariot after it passes by. Still others try to muscle their way past the Peacekeepers, who seem to be at the peak of their training in attempting to hold them back.

The cries of delight grow all the shriller when people realize that we are standing in all our natural beauty.

"Haymitch…. AHHHHHHH!" A gaggle of pre-teen girls squeals at a pitch so high, only dogs could hear it.

"Maysilee, I love you! Marry me!" I think I hear one man bellow over the din.

I catch sight of a young mother full-bore weeping as she reaches for the little one in the chariot row ahead of me. "Gilla… win for me, darling!"

"Beech! BEECH! BEECH!" Still another entire section starts up a chant, stamping its feet.

Gilla is radiant, blowing kisses to everyone in sight; in response, people are diving and pushing each other violently out of the way, as if these kisses really can be caught. Beech looks pleasantly surprised and delighted by the rhythmic chant of his name. When he pumps a fist in the air, the audience goes berserk.

Even my own grin is so wide, it's nearly splitting my face. Eyes shining, I falter when I turn to look at Haymitch, who seems icily unmoved by the clear adoration being thrown at us, none more than at him.

"Are you all right?" I ask, my smile wavering just a bit as I squeeze his hand.

He jerks with a start. "What?"

I laugh musically. "ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?" I holler, nearly in his ear.

He leans away from me, his face so comically pained that I giggle again. After a moment, he shrugs.

"Just don't know what to make of it!" he barks over the chaos. "Is this for real?"

I shift my eyes to look at our entwined hands, my smile full and gentle. "Yeah, it is." I don't think he hears me, but he's still studying me all the same. I chuckle. "Relax," I mouth at him. "Stop worrying."

His face scrunches up in confusion, and I just shake my head, leaving it be.

We finally enter the City Circle proper, our chariot swaying to a halt as we all look up to the podium emblazoned with the presidential seal. President Snow takes the stage and welcomes us with a brief speech. Then, we are dismissed to exit our chariots and find our mentors and escorts.

At a head taller than the rest of the field, Beech is spotted easily by Brutus, who waves us down. Dolly Evana rushes forward to embrace me, and I feel my stomach clench guiltily that I've almost forgotten her presence. Over her shoulder, I can see Brutus talking into a small device held up to his ear. It must be some kind of phone, only this one he can hold in his hands. Only Merchant families like mine can afford a telephone, and those are landlines, connected to a switchboard provided by the government. Just as he appears to hang up with one, he flips the portable phone open again and another caller takes its place. He doesn't seem to know what to do with this kind of attention. I barely know myself.

Dolly is trying to drag Haymitch into conversation when the ex-Career stomps up, looking haggard. Our escort appears delighted by his exhaustion. "Sponsors?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," Brutus growls dryly; from the look on his face, he appears to be a little in shock. "But half of them seem to only want to do more than just send Maysilee a parachute….." he pinches his face with disgust. "Another third are old biddies wanting to throw money at the shrimp, and the rest are actually intrigued by your ugly mugs even though you only just stood there like a deaf-mute!" He gestures at the boys, though most of his ire is directed at Haymitch.

My classmate just shrugs flippantly, a smug smile frolicking on his face. "Cool."

Brutus gawks at him for a moment, then turns away with a scoff, leading the way to the elevators of the Training Center. As District 12, we get the top floor – the penthouse suite. Dolly prattles on to us about its features the whole ride up. When we finally step into our home-away-from-home with a DING, Brutus dismisses us to bed.

"Set your alarms to 8:30. There's some stuff I want to go over with you all at breakfast. Training starts at 10 – sharp."

I am at my door when I hear a voice murmur, "Good night, Maysilee."

I cast a glance over my shoulder to find Haymitch scuffing at the ground, and beam.

"Night, Mitchy," I try out the pet name. His head snaps up in surprise, but before he can form an answer (or perhaps an objection), I close the door behind me.


A/N: District5Chemist - Thank you. That means a lot. More district division to come in later chapters. Katarinakat - Interesting how you don't like Danny. Stay tuned...